Downtown Qufu is a quaint town – unlike other attractions, its
visitors are Chinese. Walk around town and enjoy the street food of skewers of
meat and vegetable grilled, egg pancakes, boiled scorpions. I’m a novelty here,
garnering glances and friendly ingratiation. No one speaks English, anywhere. I
revel in the discovery. Ten weeks experience and have learned something, even
can speak a few phrases in Mandarin. I’m not a baby like arriving in Beijing.
More like a five year old.
Confucius born and died in Qufu (circa 478 BC). For the last
two thousand years, Emperors have
venerated his home, adding on a 466-room, 9 courtyard, 1-km long Confucius
Temple on a north-south access. Its architectural importance rivals the
Forbidden City in Beijing. But that was later. Confucius was a humble man, with
few possessions.
The Kong family from which he is patriarch enjoyed the good
life until the twenty century when, in the 1940s, Kong Demaoi, a family leader
of Confucianism, fled to Taiwan during the Japanese invasion. The Qufu phone book
is full of Kong’s, as allegedly so many living here are descendents. For all of
Confucius’ prowess, the seminal Chinese thinker – akin to Socrates and Plato in
the West, Lincoln and Jefferson in America – was never able to put his
political philosophy to practical use as a government official. Hence, he’s
said to the only Chinese leader who
never let the people down.
He was a poet, an unacknowledged legislator of the world, as
Percy Shelley opined. Kant called him “the Chinese Socrates” Western greats
like Voltaire and Rousseau lionized him, disgusted as
they were with religious dogma. “No superstitions, no absurd legends, none of
those dogmas which insult reason and nature.”
The evening is spent walking around food stalls – the town’s
specialty, boiled scorpion. Dinner can be had for about 10 RNB, or about a
$1.50.
It’s a brisk start to the day. I have only till 3 p.m. before
heading onward to Shanghai. The temple complex that successive emperors built
to venerate Mr. Confucius is quiet and empty.
After a succession of gates and courtyards lies a three-story
wooden building built in 1018, a triple-layered room with curving eaves and
four layers of crossbeams, called Kue Wen Pavilion. Beyong lie the thirteen
stele pavilions, containing 53 tablets presented by emperors to commemorate
their visits. Further along is Apricot Altar, where Confucius is said to have taught.
This is far more humble than where Socrates, Plato and Aristotle debated.
It’s difficult to comprehend than within these walls developed
a guiding philosophy that has guided a 2,000 year empire. There is also an
auspicious Cypress tree, which Confucius supposedly planted. Perhaps the
Chinese version of Buddha’s bodhi tree. Some even suggest that Confucius came
from India and is Buddha.
Beyond is the grandest building, The Hall of Great
Achievements. This is where Confucius was worshipped through the ages. Each
emperor, not to be outdone, added something new, in this case 28 stone pillars
carved with bas-relief dragons, dating around 1500. The complex is a relic,
devoid of spirit in contrast to India. The inside is cold, damp and cold. The
architecture is difficult to appreciate as it’s subtle and changes little over
the ages, a hallmark to simplicity, consistency and tradition.
The Hall of Poetry and Rites is where Confucius was supposed
to have taught his son, Kong Li, to learn poetry from the Book of Odes, to
learn the art of expression, and ritual from the Book of Rites, to build
character. The centuries-old stone relief’s are the only visual depiction of
Confucius that gives me some sense of what he means by scholarship, discipline
and honor.
Only on the way out do I discover the entrance to Confucius’
home: squished between the Temple complex and his surviving family’s mansion. It’s
the size of shack. The irony is not
lost. Said the Mr. Confucius: “With
coarse rice to eat, with water to drink, and my crooked arm for a pillow - is
not joy to be found therein? Riches and honors acquired through unrighteousness
are to me as the floating clouds.”
A few bus rides later, I am back at the Yanzhou train station
to catch the D31 Express to Shanghai. From ancient past to the glimmering
Chinese city of the future. As the
scenery passes by, I realize that you can’t understand China if you don’t understand
Confucianism.